The Grand Banks Café (9 page)

‘But when I showed you that photo
of you, on the hotel terrace …'

‘Oh very clever! Of course I knew
straight off that you were police. I told myself Le Clinche must have talked. I got
scared and told Gaston to get us out of there. Only on the way, we thought there was
no point because in the end they'd collar us round the next corner. Not to
mention the fact that we'd only got two hundred francs between us. What are
you going to do with me? … You can't send me to jail!'

‘Do you think the wireless
operator is the killer?'

‘How should I know?'

‘Do you own a pair of tan-coloured
shoes?' Maigret suddenly asked Gaston Buzier.

‘I … Yes. Why?'

‘Oh, nothing. Just asking. Are you
absolutely sure you wouldn't be able to recognize the man who killed the
captain?'

‘All I saw was a man's
outline in the dark.'

‘Well now, Pierre Le Clinche, who
was also there, hidden by the trucks, reckons the murderer was wearing tan
shoes.'

Gaston was on his feet like a shot. His
eyes were hard, and his lips curled in a snarl.

‘He said that? You're sure
he said that?'

His anger almost choked him, reduced him
to a stammer. He was no longer the same man. He banged the desk with his fist.

‘I'm not having this! Take me to him! … Where
is he? By God! We'll soon see who's lying! Tan-coloured shoes! And that
makes me the killer, right? … He's the one who took my girl! He's the
one who let her off the boat! And he has the nerve to say …'

‘Calm down.'

He could scarcely breathe. He
gasped:

‘Did you hear that, Adèle? …
That's just like all your lover-boys!'

Tears of rage filled both eyes. His
teeth chattered.

‘This is too much! … It
wasn't me who … ha ha ha … this takes the biscuit! It's better than the
films! … And the minute it comes out that I've got two convictions, he's
the one who is believed! So I killed Captain Fallut! … Because I was jealous of him,
is that it? … What else? … Oh yes, didn't I kill the wireless operator
too?'

He ran one hand feverishly though his
hair, which left it in a mess. It also made him look thinner. His eyes had darker
rings under them, his complexion was duller.

‘If you're going to arrest
me, what are you waiting for?'

‘Shut up!' snapped
Adèle.

But she too had started to panic, though
this did not stop her giving Gaston sceptical looks.

Did she have her suspicions? Or was this
some sort of play-acting game?

‘If you're going to arrest
me, do it now … But I demand to confront the man … Then we'll see!'

Maigret had pressed an electric bell.
The station duty officer showed his face warily round the door.

‘I want you to keep the gentleman
and the lady here
until tomorrow, until we
get a ruling from the examining magistrate.'

‘You rat!' Adèle yelled at
him and she spat on the floor. ‘You want to lock me up for telling the truth!
… Right then, listen to me: every word of what I just told you was made up! …
I'm not going to sign any statement! … That'll put the tin lid on your
little scheme! … So this is the way …'

And turning to Gaston:

‘Never mind! … They can't
touch us! You'll see, when it comes to it it's us who'll have the
last laugh … Only thing is, a woman who's been on the Vice Squad's
books, well, all she's good for is for banging up in the cells … Oh by the
way, just asking, was it me who killed the captain? …'

Maigret left the room without listening
to the rest. Outside, he filled his lungs with sea air and knocked the ash out of
his pipe. He hadn't gone ten metres when he heard Adèle from inside the police
station regaling officers with the choicest items of her vocabulary.

It was now two in the morning. The night
was unnaturally calm. It was high tide, and the masts of the fishing boats swayed to
and fro above the roofs of the houses.

And over everything the regular murmur,
wave after wave, of sea on shingle.

Harsh lights surrounded the
Océan
. It was still being unloaded round the clock, and the dock-hands
strained to push the trucks as they filled with cod.

The Grand Banks Café was closed. At the
Hôtel de la Plage, the porter, wearing a pair of trousers over his night-shirt,
opened the door for the inspector.

The lobby was lit by a single lamp. It was why it took a
moment before Maigret made out the figure of a woman in a rattan chair.

It was Marie Léonnec. She was asleep
with her head resting on one shoulder.

‘I think she's waiting for
you,' whispered the porter.

She was pale. And possibly anaemic.
There was no colour in her lips, and the dark shadows under her eyes showed just how
exhausted she was. She slept with her mouth open, as if she was not getting enough
air.

Maigret touched her gently on the
shoulder. She gave a start, sat up, looked at him in a daze.

‘I must have dropped off …
Aah!'

‘Why aren't you in bed?
Didn't my wife see you to your room?'

‘Yes. But I came down again. I was
very quiet. I wanted to know … Tell me …'

She was not as pretty as usual because
sleep had made her skin clammy. A mosquito bite had left a red spot in the middle of
her forehead.

Her dress, which she had probably made
herself from hard-wearing serge, was creased.

‘Have you found out anything new?
No? Listen, I've been thinking a lot. I don't know how to say this …
Before I see Pierre tomorrow, I want you to talk to him. I want you to say that I
know all about that woman, that I don't hate him for it. I'm certain,
you see, that he didn't do it. But if I speak to him first, he'll feel
awkward. You saw him this morning. He's all on edge, If there was a woman on
board, isn't it only natural if he …'

But it was too much for her. She burst into tears. She
could not stop crying.

‘And most of all, nothing must get
into the papers. My parents mustn't know. They wouldn't understand. They
…'

She hiccupped.

‘You've got to find the
murderer! I think if I could question people … I'm sorry, I don't know
what I'm saying. You know better than me. Only you don't know Pierre.
I'm two years older than him. He's like a little boy really, especially
if you accuse him of anything, he is likely to clam up – it's pride – and not
say anything. He is very sensitive. He has been humiliated too often.'

Maigret put his hand on her shoulder,
slowly, holding back a deep sigh.

Adèle's voice was still going
round and round in his head. He saw her again, seductive, desirable in the full
bloom of her animal presence, magnificent in her sensuality.

And here was this well-brought-up
anaemic girl, who was trying to hold back her tears and smile brightly.

‘When you really know him
…'

But what she would never really know was
the dark cabin around which three men had circled for days, for weeks on end, far
away, in the middle of the ocean, while other crewmen in the engine room and in the
foredeck dimly sensed that a tragedy was unfolding, kept watch on the sea, discussed
changes of course, felt increasingly uneasy and talked of the evil eye and
madness.

‘I'll talk to Le Clinche
tomorrow.'

‘Can I too?'

‘Perhaps. Probably. But now you must get some
rest.'

A little later, Madame Maigret, still
half-asleep, murmured:

‘She's very sweet! Did you
know she's already got her trousseau together? All hand-embroidered … Find out
anything new? You smell of perfume …'

No doubt lingering traces of
Adèle's overpowering scent which had clung to him. A scent as common as cheap
wine in cheap bistros which had, on board the trawler and for months on end, mingled
with the rank smell of cod while men prowled round a cabin, as determined and
pugnacious as dogs.

‘Sleep well!' he said,
pulling the blanket up to his chin.

The kiss he placed on the forehead of
his drowsy wife was solemn and sincere.

The staging was basic: the setting was
the same as for most confrontations of witnesses and accused. This one was taking
place in a small office in the jail. Chief Inspector Girard, of the Le Havre police,
who was in charge of the investigation, sat in the only chair. Maigret stood with
his elbows leaning on the mantelpiece of the black granite fireplace. On the wall
were graphs, official notices and a lithograph of the President of the French
Republic.

Standing in the full glare of the lamp
was Gaston Buzier. He was wearing his tan-coloured shoes.

‘Let's have the wireless
operator in.'

The door opened. Pierre Le Clinche, who
had been given no warning, walked in, brow furrowed, like a man in pain who is
expecting to get more of the same treatment. He saw Buzier. But he paid him not the
slightest attention and looked all round him, wondering which man he should
face.

On the other hand, Adèle's lover
looked him up and down, a supercilious smile hanging on his lips.

Le Clinche had a crumpled air. His flesh
was grey. He did not try to bluster or conceal his dejection. He was as lost as a
sick animal.

‘Do you recognize this man
here?'

He stared at Buzier, as if searching
through his memory.

‘No. Who is he?'

‘Take a good look at him, from
head to foot …'

Le Clinche obeyed, and the minute his
eyes reached the shoes, he straightened up.

‘Well?'

‘Yes.'

‘Yes what?'

‘I understand what you're
getting at. The tan shoes …'

‘So that's it!' Gaston
Buzier suddenly burst out. He had not said a word until then but his face was now
dark with anger. ‘Why don't you tell them again that I'm the one
who did your captain in? Go on!'

All eyes were on the wireless operator,
who looked at the floor and gestured vaguely with one hand.

‘Say it!'

‘Perhaps those weren't the
shoes.'

‘Oh yes!' Gaston crowed,
already claiming victory. ‘So you're backing down …'

‘You don't recognize the man
who murdered Fallut?'

‘I don't know …
No.'

‘You are probably aware that this
man is the lover of a certain Adèle, who you most certainly do know. He has already
admitted that he was near the trawler at the moment the crime was committed. Also
that he was wearing tan-coloured shoes.'

All this time, Buzier was facing him
down, bristling with impatience and fury.

‘That's right! Make him
talk! But he'd better be telling the truth or else I swear I'll
…'

‘Hold your tongue! Well, Le
Clinche?'

The young man passed his hand over his brow and winced,
literally, with pain.

‘I don't know! He can go
hang for all I care!'

‘But you did see a man wearing tan
shoes attack Fallut.'

‘I forget.'

‘That's what you said when
you were first interviewed. That wasn't very long ago. Are you sticking to
what you said then?'

‘No, that is … Look, I saw a man
wearing tan shoes. That's all I saw, I don't know if he was the
murderer.'

The longer the interview went on, the
more confident Gaston Buzier, who also looked rather seedy after a night in the
cells, became. He was now shifting his weight from one leg to the other, with one
hand in his trouser pocket.

‘See? He's backing down! He
doesn't dare repeat the lies he told you.'

‘Answer me this, Le Clinche. Thus
far, we know for certain that there were two men near the trawler at the time when
the captain was murdered: you were one, and Buzier the other. You say you
didn't kill anybody. Now, after pointing the finger at this man, you seem to
be withdrawing the accusation. So was there a third person there? If so, then it is
impossible you could not have seen him. So who was it?'

Silence. Pierre Le Clinche continued to
stare at the ground.

Maigret, still leaning with elbows
propped up on the fireplace, had taken no part in the interrogation, happy to leave
it to his colleague and content just to observe the two men.

‘I repeat the question: was there a third person on
the quay?'

‘I don't know,' said
the prisoner in a crushed voice.

‘Is that a yes?'

A shrug of the shoulder which meant:
‘As you wish.'

‘Who was it?'

‘It was dark.'

‘In that case tell me why you said
the murderer was wearing tan shoes … Wasn't it a way of drawing attention away
from the real murderer who was someone you knew?'